Black and white
by obliviate-the-stars
Summary: Not all studies are black and white. Johnlock multi-chapter
1. A Brief Awakening

**Hello there! Thanks for the click! This is my first ever fanfiction so I apologise if it's utterly awful. This is a multi-chapter story and it will have plot etc. It will hopefully continue for many, MANY more chapters to come, so enjoy! Rating may vary toward the latter part.**

**Please remember to review, because I would really like some advice on how to improve.**

**Dedicated to the utterly awesomesauce carmilla99. I'm sorry it took so long.**

A firm yet tender hand brushed against Sherlock's cheek; the hand caressing the skin intently and curiously. It tugged at the black curls and played with the disheveled hair as a slight form of recreation. Sherlock shivered. A gasp of desire escaped his lips. His whole body filled with want, passion and pleasure. Nevertheless he was scared shitless. This was the penultimate moment. There was no going back. This was the moment he had longed so much for ever since he had laid eyes on this man. But despite the months of preparation, he was intoxicated by fear; the kind of fear that you get when something (or for this instance someone) is so important to you and means that much. The trepidation began to rise in his stomach. It felt like an avalanche of worry. Weighing him down like a burden. Unsure of what his teaser was actually thinking or feeling, Sherlock's body was filled with unease. _No_, he thought. _I must do this. _He moved closer so there was barely any physical or mental space between them. Sherlock felt the other man's warm breath enveloping his neck in a cloud of yearning. He readied himself for a slow, or quick embrace, repeating to himself the positives of what would happen and blocked out the _'what if's' _and pretending that their existence had never been noted. He steadied himself to encounter those rosy lips for the first time. He prepared himself to say the person's name in such a way the whole world would know that their name was now yours and that you had a yet unspoken promise of what they call love.

"Sherlock?" the man was awoken from the only reverie that mattered to him. His personal space was being invaded by a looming, but passive figure that was wearing his usual cream coloured jumper. Sherlock was alarmed at the first sight of the short man's presence in _his_ room. However startled, he managed to stifle a moan of delight in seeing John, despite being fairly pissed off that he hadn't experienced the luxury of having their tongue's entwined in a trance whilst lips pressed against one another's.

Sherlock detected that John's jaw was clenched; anger clearly binding them together in a tight grip. Sherlock knew John was trying, unsuccessfully, to be angry, however Sherlock knew John's quick temper would wear off in _3, 2, 1…_

John's jaw released itself from its tight closure. His eyes were still trying to torment though. Sherlock zoomed in on the hidden expressions. _Touch of anxiety, worry?, sweaty forehead – changed and cleansed in a rush?, Lestrade! _Sherlock finally came to the conclusion that he had overslept and that they were expected at the yard around about twenty minutes before John had awoken Sherlock. He rolled his eyes. Knowing as long as they would appear before noon Lestrade wouldn't mind that much, _would he?_ It was usually he that awoken John which is probably one of the many reasons why John was in a fluster. Sherlock was surprisingly calm for being alarmed at the first sight of the short man's presence in _his_ room.

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's clock, and rested on the bedside table. He gasped.

"Sherlock, look at the time! It's gone half past nine in already! Lestrade expected us to be in the yard by nine o'clock. Sharp!" John was being melodramatic, as usual, for the 4724th time (Sherlock had been counting). Sherlock mumbled something inaudible and rolled in a sherlock-esque style out-of-bed. He tottered toward his blue velveteen robe and clothed himself graciously.

"Sherlock!" John pined for the taller man. Sherlock sighed and gyrated in one single movement so that he was level with John's face.

"I'm sure Lestrade won't mind that we haven't arrived on time, because usually it's he that's always late." John pleaded, puppy-like, with his eyes. Sherlock scowled in a sarcastic but playful manner and strolled with big paces back towards his room, slamming the door behind him.

John rolled his eyes, nevertheless a smile escaped from the corners of his lips. "I expect a tea before I leave as well, please. The usual," Sherlock bellowed from inside his room, making john a bit disgruntled, despite the fact it was Sherlock who usually made the hot beverages.

Whilst John was stirring the tea, the spoon clinking as it scraped the sides, Sherlock re-appeared wearing a tight purple shirt whose buttons was screaming to be unfastened. He thanked John for the tea and clad himself in a long over-coat with its collar up looking very mysterious. Next he tossed genially a blue scarf on, its tassels swaying whilst the scarf was being suitably fit for the wearers purposes.

Once he had finished the tea, he pushed it to the sink and started walking with his standard grace that was familiar to his acquaintances.

"C'mon John!" Sherlock called from ahead "We have a case to solve."


	2. The arrival of The Master-mind

**Hello again viewers! I won't waste your time, but I just wanted to say, please, PLEASE review. This story has had over 115 views (thank you guys!), nevertheless it has only had a few reviews. I really love feedback, because it means I can improve on my writing, which henceforth makes your fics better! So after you've read it, it can only be a single sentence, it doesn't have to be long, please can you review. Thank you.**

The bitter autumnal wind pierced like a whetted knife, cutting the skin. To Sherlock it wasn't much bother. He had his collar up so it wasn't an inconvenience. For John however, he was muttering curses under his breath, or just general sarcasm such as: "Oh what blissful weather London possesses" to which Sherlock then replied "Indeed"; not a glimmer of emotion showing, like a beacon once lit, now vanished.

The trees quaked in the presence of the turbulent air, spreading their creations all over the pavement. The amount of leaves was decreasing every day. Many were on their way towards the much-talked-about white light, although in a few months they would be reborn and a luscious green would occupy their branches once more. Some trees still carried the crimson glow of October, turning the colour of blood, before fading away, to a much more warming orange, shining with hope. A minuscule amount of them had piles at their feet. Their branches drooped almost in touching distance, beckoning to rest on their arms again. They swayed like new commuters on a tube. Bashing into one-another, before settling once more at a stop.

Sherlock observed all this in what seemed like under a second. He admired the incandescent rays of sunlight, being almost reflected from the dusty brown leaves. Sherlock loved the myriad of cerise's and ginger's splashed across the street. But what he loved most of all was the brisk pace and light thud of John's footsteps skimming the cemented pathway. He adored John's presence. It was calming, soothing, relaxing. He smirked, creating dimples in his cheeks. Sherlock felt a sudden surge of wanderlust, to forget Scotland Yard and then to possibly even reveal to John how he was starting to feel towards him; though he doubted it was a phase, he couldn't help wanting to cease the feeling. It was getting in the way of their friendship and work.

John failed to notice the abrupt change in Sherlock's facial expression. He hurried on, wishing to be at Scotland Yard as soon as possible, before he caught pneumonia or worse, hyperthermia.

When they arrived, and had reached the 4th floor where Lestrade's department is situated, both met a bemused and tense Lestrade in a chaotic office bustling with people running around, making phone calls, just generally hectic! This perplexed Sherlock, as the office was never usually this busy unless Moriarty was toying with the police. That's when the thought occurred to him. His expressionless face unexpectedly filled with vexation from the realisation that the infamous scandal might have been resurrected.

Lestrade opened his mouth whilst Sherlock was jumping to conclusions. He was fretting and scratching the side of his mouth.

"Now before yo-" Lestrade didn't have time to finish his sentence prior to the interruption.

"What happened? What did he do?"

"Sherlock we don't know for s-"

"Then why is everyone running about the place like a BLOODY SET OF HEADLESS CHICKENS?" Sherlock bellowed those final words with an infuriation that cannot be described.

"We had a package delivered to us with a fragment of door paint that we've identified from 221B" Sherlock regained his usual posture and smiled to himself.

"Neat" He muttered, unknowing of Lestrade's and John's unison eye-roll.

"Sherlock it was in the shape of an M…" Sherlock's face slackened once more. It was no longer filled with anger but with pity and exhaustion.

"He's back then isn't he?" Sherlock couldn't meet the eyes of Lestrade or even John. His lower lip quivered.


End file.
